Let me start by saying: I didn't want to be in Advanced Elemental Theory.

  I just wanted to nap, practice my fire threads in peace, and maybe roast a boar or two in the training fields while Gram brewed something mildly illegal in the background.

  But no.

  Because apparently being a "rare four-element battle mage with a stable core and tactical potential" means you're no longer allowed to hide.

  So there I was, entering a tall, echoing lecture hall built like a cathedral made love to a lightning storm. The sigils on the walls hummed. The chandeliers hovered. The floor glowed faintly under pressure. And the desks? Lined in rows like a war council room.

  I expected a few overachievers. Maybe one or two of those “I read grimoires for fun” types.

  What I didn't expect was to walk into a room full of third and fourth-years.

  I paused in the doorway. Blinked. Stepped back out. Checked the pque.

  Advanced Elemental Theory – Approved Attendees Only

  Yep. Right pce.

  I stepped back in. Slowly.

  Thirty uppercssmen turned to look at me.

  One kid with frost runes tattooed on his neck leaned over and whispered, "Is that a first-year?"

  Another whispered, "That’s the one from Squad 7. The snake guy."

  And then… there was her.

  Sylvaria Elion Wellstion – The Empire’s Poster Girl of Cold StaresSitting dead center, surrounded by an unnatural pocket of silence and social anxiety, was the one person I’ve been actively trying not to get noticed by.

  Princess Sylvaria.

  Student Council President. Top combat duelist. Magic prodigy. Probable owner of a buried kingdom or two.

  She was seated with perfect posture, flipping through a spellbook with one gloved hand and somehow judging the room without even blinking.

  Our eyes met.

  My soul briefly left my body.

  She stared like I was a statistical anomaly she wasn’t sure was legal.

  I awkwardly raised a hand. “Hi.”

  She stood up.

  She. Stood. Up.

  I almost ran.

  Instead, I stood very still. I was not going to flee like a guilty man. I had done nothing wrong today.

  She approached with silent steps and an expression that could chill va.

  Then she stopped two feet from me. And spoke. Quietly.

  “So... you’re the son of Court Mage Kael Wyrhart.”

  Her voice was like chilled steel. Smooth. Controlled. Regal in a way that made me feel like a frog being told to recite poetry.

  “Yes,” I said. Stiff. Honest. Internally dying.

  She looked me up and down. Not with disdain—worse. With curiosity.

  Then she nodded. “Interesting.”

  And walked away.

  That was it.No insult. No threat. Just “interesting.”

  Somehow, that was worse than any of the above.

  Breathing Again: A Lucien Wyrhart TraditionI stood frozen for a full thirty seconds. Then inhaled like I’d just been released from underwater chains.

  "Nope," I whispered to myself. "Nope, no, never again. I'm not getting dragged into noble politics. I'm invisible. I’m a background character. I don't need this kind of pressure."

  Narrator: He would, in fact, continue to get this kind of pressure.

  Css Two: Tactical Combat Simution – The Chair of DoomI walked into the next css: Mage Positioning and Combat Simution.

  Great name. Sounds tactical. Thoughtful. Safe.

  Until I saw the css size: small. Maybe twenty students. More advanced types. Prodigies. Specialized duelists.

  And Sylvaria.

  Again.

  Already seated.

  And—of course—the only empty seat was next to her.

  I looked around.

  Nada. Nothing. Every other chair had a body or a spell bag on it. Even the wall was occupied by a student pretending to meditate while actually eavesdropping.

  “Fate hates me,” I muttered.

  I gnced at Sylvaria. She didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge me. Just sat there, reading a map of mana field deployments like she was plotting a war.

  So I did the only thing I could do.

  I walked confidently over and sat next to her without flinching.

  Did I ask permission?No.

  Did I hesitate?Not a blink.

  Did I feel my soul trying to escape through my colrbone?

  Absolutely.

  But I kept my face calm. Professional. Stoic. I was not going to let fate—or a glorified magic princess—make me look weak.

  As the instructor—a sharp-featured man in leather runed armor—began css, Sylvaria finally turned her head toward me.

  One gnce. No words. Just a tilt of her head.

  I gnced back. Cool. Calm. Collected.

  Internally screaming.

  Meanwhile, Elsewhere: The Rest of Squad 7 Struggles with RealityRielle was getting lectured in emotional control css after suplexing a mana clone.

  Eli was banned from her third sparring session in a day for "overuse of bde screaming." (Her words, not mine.)

  Gram was trying to present a potion experiment in Ethics css but accidentally brought a “mood enhancement elixir” that caused the professor to start singing.

  Our squad was, as usual, a beautiful disaster.And I, the so-called “mature” one, was currently surviving political death-row seating assignments.

  The Lesson: Positioning, Pressure, and PartnersThe css ran simutions—illusion-field projected battlefields where you had to pce mages and swordsmen based on terrain, mana density, and enemy movements.

  I passed easily.

  Sylvaria noticed.

  She didn’t say anything. Just watched.

  Once, she muttered, “You use your surroundings like a tactician, not a brawler.”

  I didn’t respond. Because anything I said might accidentally cause an arranged marriage, a duel, or a royal conspiracy.

  I am not getting involved.

  Later That Night: Dorm ReflectionsI sat in my room, scribbling notes. My summon curled beside me. Gram was yelling about color-shifting potion bubbles from the other room. Rielle was pacing, compining about how emotional control was “for cowards.” Eli sharpened her bde while humming a war song.

  Me?I was thinking.

  I don’t want attention. I don’t want a title. I don’t want to be near a princess with combat records longer than my grocery list.

  But I’ve been pced in her orbit. Twice. Coincidence or not… that means something.

  I may not like the game.

  But I think I’m about to be forced to py it.